Unfortunately, I had to repost this, as I didn't have enough space left
in my account, so the darn thing crashed...

Anyway, as I have said, the very ending of this chapter is VERY poorly
written, as the POV isn't consistent at all. However, it was written simply
to be written (because this chapter was too long for me;), and I promise
it'll be cleaned up within 2 weeks :) The last portion (past the long dashed
line at the end of the chapter) may be incorporated, though this snippet
will probably be snipped (as snippets are wont to be;) and moved to a later
chapter.

Also, "Kragg" was mentioned as the name of this fantasy world in Chapter 2,
but it had long been decided from this corner that "Kragg" was actually the
chief city of the orcs. All suggestions for world-names are wholeheartedly
encouraged :)



                        {Chapter the Third}
                                -=-
                            {Discovery}


                                -=-


Life, as everyone knows, is full of surprises. Darius Grimblade had had quite
a lot of life come his way in the past few days, not the least part of which
had wandered by a scant few minutes after he and his companions had set foot
inside this strange hovel. After languishing in silence for some time watching
Amel Talic chatting amiably with the old woman - whom Darius had assumed was
the head servant - Grimblade had wondered (rather loudly) "when we were going
to see Dorn." 

The old woman had laughed generously, taking the question in full stride. 
Talic, between bursts of laughter, had explained that the woman seated with 
them now was, in fact, Dorn of Torin. When Darius asked why this hadn't been 
mentioned to him earlier, Amel has straightened his face and replied 
earnestly, "Because you didn't ask."

Darius had been surprised (and a little embarrassed) then. Embarrassment 
aside, now was not much different. Life went on, surprises in tow. The young 
warrior went along with them, even if he wasn't certain of the final 
destination.

He wasn't quite so sure about going along with Argoth and Amel, though, even 
if the two of them did seem fairly certain of where they were headed.

Darius turned to the old woman (_Dorn, that's Dorn_, he reminded himself), 
hoping to find a fellow soul to share in his fledgling confusion.

He was disappointed.

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

Argoth adjusted his seating, turning towards Grimblade. "Did you tell Garant 
what path you would be traveling to meet us?"

"Of course not," Darius answered without hesitation.

The barbarian nodded solemnly. Obviously, he had already known the answer.
Darius paused, reflecting. He had, perhaps, mistaken thought and contemplation
for moodiness and sullen skulking. He mentally pledged to avoid making that
mistake in the future. 

Argoth continued, completely unaware of Grimblade's newfound revelations 
concerning his depth of character. "Yet we managed to find you anyway."

Amel Talic smiled wryly. "It would seem that your value has risen in certain 
circles."

The import of what the duo was trying to tell him crushed the Warlord like a 
warhammer in the ribs. "Do you mean to tell me that some god put a vision in 
the heads of these orcs so they could find me and kill me?"

"Not just *some* god," intoned Amel Talic. "Tarkan."

Darius Grimblade sat stunned in disbelief for several moments. Finally, his 
mouth prevailed over his parlyzed mind and spoke.

"Why?"

"Good question," answered Argoth.

"And one I think we might have the answer to," offered Amel Talic, ignoring 
his somewhat sarcastic friend. The young priest rose from his chair as he 
spoke, turning to set his tea on the mantle above the fireplace. Three sets of 
eyes followed him intently, though he made no effort to meet the gaze of any
present. 

Talic turned back towards those assembled, his eyes ultimately settling in
Argoth's direction. His manner was composed, the air around him brimming with
a palpable confidence, and for a brief moment Darius was transported back in
time - back to the Western Edge. Back to musty old tents and hastily improvised
warplans. 

Back to Serrithos.

Darius prayed wordlessly for a shudder, a convulsion: anything to break 
himself out of his reverie. Anything to avoid remembering what he had seen. He 
had forgotten a lot of things about the campaigns on the Western Edge - and a 
lot of those things had been *voluntarily* forgotten -

But he had not forgotten Serrithos.

And as Amel Talic turned around now, obviously preparing for some grand sequel
to his initial assertion, Grimblade saw not the white hair and grey eyes of
the Servant of Falcros, but the ebon locks and oak-brown orbs of Bortan,
emerged from the frozen recesses of his mind - Bortan, still turning around,
still explaining that same ill-conceived plan, still maintaining that same
self-sure manner, that false manner, that *mocking* manner, because the plan
was doomed, and they were all doomed with it - and they all knew it, had all
known it then. 

And Bortan would keep turning around in Darius' mind - would *always* be
turning around, would *always* be mouthing those same empty words, would
*always* be wearing that same "believe-me" look on his face as he locked eyes
with the young warrior, because for some, Serrithos had never ended, would
never end - 

Darius felt the anticipated quake finally approaching. The shiver came,
washing over him in a cold wave that seemed to traverse both body and soul.
The image of Bortan wavered, lingering, trying desperately to maintain its
hold on the young warrior's mind like a lonely whore in the morning as her
moneyed lover is leaving. Darius shuddered. The vision of Serrithos swayed in
his mind with the vibrating motion, gradually metamorphosing into the present.
Bortan was gone, and Serrithos with him. 

For now.

Grimblade turned back to Talic, who had passed to his left now, still wearing 
that charlatan manner like a cloak slick with oily rain. The young priest 
advanced upon the chest he and Argoth had been carrying with them when they
had rescued Grimblade. Darius finished mentally banishing the spectre of
Bortan from his eyes with all due haste. Talic, for his part, unlocked the
box. 

A faint glow from within the container spread out over the cleric's drawn 
features, paling them in an unnatural moon-white glow. "Truth be told," he
began, "we were expecting an attack on you." The priest inserted his hands
into the chest, ignoring the stunned look that had returned to its favorite
nest upon Grimblade's face. From the meticulous look on Talic's features and
the gingerly movements of his arms, he seemed to be engaged in untangling some
invisible cord. "You see," he said, apparently having unfastened the tenacious
twine, "Argoth and I have run into similar problems of our own lately." A
satisfied look spread across his face as he dredged his prize from the depths
in which it had remained submerged from view. 

"And it all started," he said, "when we found this..."

                        {X          X          X}



"*I* say we head down that pass and send these upstarts tumbling over the 
Eastern Reaches!"

Haladan sighed. Of course, he hadn't expected to hear anything else from
Grommand - hadn't heard anything else from Grommand for two weeks now,
actually - but it would have been a pleasant surprise, nonetheless. 

A tired-looking dwarf - you could always tell the veterans by the tired look
on their faces, Haladan reflected - raised his voice and spoke. "We've been
over this before, Grommand. We are in a defensive position; our adversaries
have no choice but to fight us here, where we are well defended; to move into
the open and down the pass is to play into the hands of the enemy; and thus we
will wait here within these walls." 

The weariness in Kharadun's features flowed into his words; he had obviously 
long ago grown tired of this seemingly endless confrontation with Grommand. 
Still, Haladan was thankful for his presence at this meeting. In his friend's 
absence Grommand had managed to sway over several generals with his bombastic 
rhetoric. The orcs had remained camped a mile away for almost a month now. The 
warriors in the keep were growing restless, and Kharadun - whose failing 
health, certainly not helped in the slightest by these confrontations, had 
caused him to miss the last two meetings - had been asked once again by 
Haladan to lend a voice of reason to the council.

Not that Kharadun had required much persuasion. A brief perusal of the minutes
of the last two meetings had left no doubt in his mind that events were taking
a decidedly dangerous turn. As tired as he was, he had quickly accepted his
commander's "invitation" to attend the convention - more to the point, to
check Grommand, the most recently appointed general. 

Haladan nearly wondered aloud what the last senior officer had been thinking, 
allowing soldiers with no field experience to be promoted to the rank of 
general. Dynor, on his deathbed, had signed Grommand's commission two days 
before he expired.

_Three days too early_, fumed Haladan bitterly. Grommand knew exactly what 
Haladan and Kharadun thought of him. They had made their opinion of his 
commission no secret. And now he was paying them back in full - with 
interest, even. At every meeting he whipped around in a dervishing frenzy, as 
if sitting still would prove lethal. He pounded his fist into the table at 
every opportunity, lending force to words that otherwise lacked any good 
guidance - like common sense. 

He literally itched for battle. He stormed on and on and on, a blast of desert
heat and stinging verbiage that threatened to burn away the defensive
advantage Kharsos granted them. 

And so Kharadun had been called in to dampen his spirits a bit, as the saying 
went. But trying to douse Grommand was like pouring water on a grease fire - 
the flames merely spread and ignited other valuables close by.

"Bah," retorted Grommand, contorting his face into a vicious sneer. "These are 
*orcs*, by Khalak!" At this, a murmur of belated assention rose through
the ranks of those assembled. An oath by Khalak, the dwarven God of War, 
usually meant Grommand was getting warmed up. "You'd have us stay here, caged 
up like Korrasts in a foxhole, for fear of a mob of undisciplined sheep!"

More murmuring. Haladan sighed for what seemed to be the hundredth time this
hour. He had known this wouldn't be easy. His eyes joined the rest in watching
Kharadun's haggard face for a response. It had become like a game now - first
back, then forth, like a pushing contest between petty children. 

Kharsos' commander could only hope his friend had enough push left in him to 
remain king of the mountain.

"Need I remind you, Grommand, that these 'undisciplined sheep,' as you call 
them, have fought forty battles in fifty days?" Failing health or not, 
Kharadun was not taking this lightly. He was visibly vehement now, his eyes a 
window to anger. "That this 'mob' has emerged victorious from no less than six 
major entanglements?"

"Rubbish!" Grommand shot back. "They've fought nothing but border garrison
patrols!" He began tugging furiously at his red beard. His voice rose in pitch
with each pull, and the thought that a ritual shaving might be their only hope
in calming Grommand's hotblooded nature flashed briefly through Haladan's
mind. "As for these 'six major entanglements,' as you call them - bah! By
orcish standards, maybe, but they haven't fought a *dwarven* war yet!" 

Haladan saw his opening and stepped through, his voice rising over the 
appreciative cheers of some of his generals. "And what would *you* know of
dwarven wars, general?" 

The assembly, which had been on the verge of tipping into Grommand's lap, 
suddenly became very silent. Haladan's cold blue eyes locked across the room 
with Grommand's red-brown orbs, and their message was clear: _You've gone a bit
too far this time, general_. 

Grommand's eyes raged. He didn't fumble for a response; he didn't have one. He 
had allowed his passion to lead him into a trap, and now his momentum had been 
swallowed in silence.

Haladan seized the initiative, speaking in a calm, measured tone. "You speak 
an awful lot about the ease with which these orcs could be routed, general. 
But I've seen survivors of these 'border patrols' whose merits you seem to
question." Haladan became aware of many faces turning to stare at him, but his
eyes never moved from Grommand's own. "I've spoken with them. I've visited the
ruins of the border keeps. I know what we're up against, and I've been in
battle before. I know what it's like. 

"You don't."

These last two words were like twin blades. One cut the ties that provided 
Grommand's hold over the assembly. The other cut into Grommand himself like a 
keen dagger. Haladan saw a brief flash of pain cross Grommand's face, but it 
was quickly masked, re-emerging converted into something more tangible. More
targetable. 

More hateful.

Grommand's face flushed redder than his bedraggled beard as he spoke. "Always
your trump card." His whispering voice sliced through the noise of the
assembly, cutting the cords of its more vocal members. "Always the last line
of defense, isn't it, Haladan?" he said, words being choked from his throat
through clenched teeth. The eyes of the assembly were on him again, only now
fear and shame burned in the place of admiration and rapture. 

"Do you know what I think, *supreme commander*?" The last two words were
practically spat out of his mouth. "I think you'd prefer to keep me out of
battle. To keep me off the front line. Because maybe I could do a better job
than you could, eh?" Grommand was on his feet now, pushing his chair aside. The
crowd was starting to murmur again in response to the vehemence, but
differently, as before. "Maybe because you want to keep everyone here believing
in your ultimate wisdom. Or believing that your *cronie* here," and he nearly
flipped the table over as he turned toward Kharadun, "keeps things running so
*smoothly* while you herd us all like sheep afraid to do battle with a horde of
rebellious orcs!" Grommand's voice had reached a fever pitch now, and the
crescendo of voices around him rose up to drown him out, most clamoring for him
to sit down and surrender the floor. "Well I won't stand by while you suck the
fight from our spirit! You're a coward, Haladan! You're both cowards! A pair of
Korrasts!" 

Haladan continued to eye Grommand coolly, his steel-blue eyes never blinking 
once during the onslaught. The disarray in the assembly hall was unappealing 
aesthetically, but he welcomed it all the same. Contrary to his general's
beliefs, he was sure Grommand could handle the field work. He was also sure
Grommand would make a fine officer in due time. 

But he was equally certain that the assembly had turned away from his upstart 
general and the dangerous course he offered, and that meant Kharsos would 
remain defended for a while, at least. A long while, judging from the 
responses that were reaching his ears from among the other assembled generals.

"Grommand, I'm afraid your behavior is out of line." The murmuring was 
united now, lending a public endorsement to the words of the legendary 
fortress's senior officer. "I'm going to have to ask you to step down."

Now the fiery lieutenant stumbled for words. Much like apologies among the 
dwarves, they never came. They merely bumped around clumsily in the thoughts 
of those who never gave them voice until it was either too late or until they 
faded from memory, entirely forgotten. Grommand mouthed words, but they were
only empty airs. Steam from a volcano that can no longer erupt, but only
implode. 

"Enough!" he finally managed. His fist slammed down into the oak table, and a
split in the wood actually raced six inches toward Haladan before stopping.
"Have it your way, then, Haladan! Lead these craven fools on, and see what
glory comes to cowards like yourself!" Turning, he stormed towards the door
leading out of the assembly chamber, causing no small number of generals to
find hasty excuses to scramble out of his way. 

Haladan watched all this patiently, and watched as Grommand - on his way out - 
collided full force with Erikos, one of the post messengers, who was on his 
way in. Had the senior officer not been so mentally drained by the whole 
encounter, he might have found this more than mildly amusing.

But Erikos was the messenger from the eastern watch, and the scouts on the 
east wall had been functioning under but one directive for nearly forty days:
keep watch over the eastern pass. 

Over Vartekh.

Haladan watched as Grommand quickly recovered his footing. With one swift yank
he jerked Erikos to his feet. Frustration had finally found a suitably
defenseless target. Grommand raised one brawny arm to strike the boy. He would
have followed through, too, had not Haladan's imperious voice restrained him. 

"Grommand."

The renegade officer halted his arm in mid-swing, though he did not take his
eyes off of Erikos. His forehead was a sweating swamp, his breath hot and
heavy on the messenger's face. 

Haladan's voice remained imperial, if impassive. "There will be no violence in
this hall. That is an order." 

The upstart looked as if he could strangle himself with suppressed rage. Such
emotional outbursts weren't very healthy, Haladan realized, but the subsequent
embarrassment was likely to keep Grommand "unavailable" for the next several
meetings. That was worth a month or two of consolidation. After that time,
Kharadun would likely have passed on, and that was a time Haladan was not
particularly looking forward to. So he accepted the reprieve, regardless of
the cost to his general's mental health. "Grommand, you are dismissed." The
officer relaxed his hold on the messenger, though he did not release it
completely. Haladan continued. "Erikos, you have the floor. What do you have
to report?" 

The young dwarf - he was only 75 or so, by the looks of him - fearfully
finished prying himself free of Grommand's grip, evidently judging by the
insane light blazing in the latter's eyes that his commander's words might
prove insufficient to prevent a severe cuffing. Tearing his eyes away and
mustering his courage, he brushed himself off briskly and approached the seat
Grommand had previously commanded. 

"My lord," Erikos began, using the title all non-officers at Kharsos used when
addressing their supreme commander, "I have news from the eastern watch." 

The floor immediately fell silent. Only Grommand's ragged breathing remained 
audible, although even that had become relatively subdued.

"Indeed," Haladan replied. "Well, all generals are here assembled. Your 
arrival comes well timed." _In more ways than one_, he added in mirthful 
silence. "What is the news?" 

Erikos felt his throat tighten, a constriction impossibly worse than the one
he had suffered at the right hand of the enraged Grommand. He had been excited
at his promotion to the prominent eastern watch, but never in his wildest
dreams had he expected to bear such news as he carried now. With all eyes upon
him, he cleared his throat to speak. 

"Your lordship," he began haltingly, "our scouts report movement along the
eastern pass." At this, a mixture of relief and curiosity rippled across the
mouths of those in attendance. 

Erikos paused, unsure his faltering voice would carry over the noise the 
assembly was making. Haladan motioned for silence. It was rapidly granted. He
looked at the messenger boy again. Erikos was obviously in awe of the dwarves 
around him, astounded by the splendor of the Great Hall that had served as the 
site of assembly meetings for more than three thousand years. Had he been that
young once? Had the assembly really seemed so splendid back then? Had the
reality ever once been in harmony with the dream? Or had the perception simply
owed its life to his youthful eagerness? 

The questions couldn't be pondered now. If forty years of debate hadn't
brought him the answers, forty seconds certainly weren't about to make 
everything crystal clear. He wiped the thoughts from his head and rested his
hands upon the table. "Well, Erikos? What, then, is the news?" 

The assembly listened intently. Forty days of anticipation and anger, of 
rivalry and resentment, were forgotten in but a moment. 

"Vartekh approaches."

                        {X         X         X}



Darius stood up, closed his eyes, and opened them again. No, it was still
there. He had already pinched himself, so there was no need to do that again.
*He* was still there. 

With it. Having no clue how *it* had made its way into Amel Talic's hands.

Grimblade's eyes never left the object of their interest, a leatherbound tome
draped in a thick cloak of dust, doubtless woven over the course of many, many
centuries. "That can't be what I think it is." 

"Can't it?" Amel Talic responded. He held the book firmly in both hands now,
advancing a step towards the young warrior. Darius took a step backwards in
response. He had the look of a man with a fear of spiders who suddenly finds 
himself trapped in a gigantic web. 

"No, it can't be," replied Grimblade, his eyes still unable to tear themselves
free of the dark brown tome. "Because that book has been lost for ages." 

Amel Talic looked down at the Sacred Book of Mihnara, a mothering cat absently 
considering her wayward kitten. "I think you should consider it found, Darius 
Grimblade."

Argoth remained seated during the encounter. Dorn, however, now rose from her
seat. "'Found,' you say, Amel Talic? And where, praytell, did you 'find' it?" 

The young priest's tongue quickly found its familiar niche inside his cheek. 
"At the Imperial Athenaeum, of course."

Shock registered on Darius' face. "You mean you stole this from the Imperial
library?" 

"No, not at all," Talic said, smiling.

Arogth spoke up. "Consider it on extended loan. A small gift from Vartekh
himself." 

Amel Talic was obviously amused. "I do wonder, though, how upset he will be 
when he finds it missing."

"Or what's going to happen to those Imperials who were guarding it," the
Northerner added, chuckling at some imagined fate. 

Dorn's stern tone cut them both short. "Do you realize what it is you hold in 
your hands, Amel Talic?"

Talic paused a moment, slightly taken aback by the edge in her voice.

"Yes and no," the priest replied. "Falcros has granted me some knowledge of 
it. I know it to be one of the Great Artifacts that predate history. But I 
also know it is written in the Old Tongue used by the first humans. So I can't 
read it directly." He met the gaze of his hostess shrewdly, obviously entering 
the negotiation phase of the transaction. "With your knowledge of Old World 
history, I thought you might be able to help translate some of it for us."

Dorn accepted the book gently, the priest offering it as he spoke. "It's been 
a long time," she murmured, apparently lost in her own thoughts. "Such a long 
time..." Her gaze was drawn dreamily to the object in her withered hands. "You 
are slightly mistaken, though, Amel Talic, when you say that this book 
predates history."

"Mistaken? How so?"

The old woman lovingly ran one hand across the mahogany binding, the other 
maintaining its gnarled grip upon the tome. "The writing of the Sacred Book of 
Mihnara predates our history, true. But the content does not." She looked up 
at the trio, and something positively *unnatural* gleamed within her eyes. She
addressed them all as she spoke. "This book contains the future." 

Argoth's face became a mask of confusion. Dorn returned her gaze to the book. 
"The tribal fathers taught us that all men are born free. The animals of the 
wild are subject to the laws of nature, but even their actions cannot be 
predicted."

"This book does not predict all of history, my friend," the old crone replied. 
"Did not the tribal fathers predict prosperous hunting in some seasons, but 
not others? Disasters? Famines? Plagues?"

"Yes," Argoth conceded slowly. He remembered now why he found visiting Dorn so 
difficult. The old woman seemed to have all the answers.

"And how did they explain this?"

All the damned questions, too.

"'_Akkh teem-inlei bal ai-kidu_.'" The Northerner recited. "'All whisperings in
nature are heard by those who listen.'" Time had not erased the wisdom of the
elders from the barbarian's mind. "Great events make their occasions more
easily heard." 

Dorn nodded sagely. "Because the ripplings they make in the stream of time are 
larger. The elders taught you well, young man." She looked at Argoth with 
approval. "The actions of men are no different. Momentous events make their 
presence known to those who will listen."

"But detailed histories?" asked Amel, casting a doubtful look at the woman. 
"It smacks of destinies already determined."

"As you said, you cannot decipher it," Dorn responded. "This book was prepared 
by the gods when man first came upon the earth with the dwarves and elves." 
The old woman ommited the race of orcs by choice, though all in the room were
well aware of the dark clouds which hung over their own futures. Her eyes 
clouded over once again as she lost herself in reverie. "The gods saw the need 
for man to have guidance. Some way to recognize the events that would have the 
greatest effects upon history, that the plans of mankind's enemies could be 
countered before they could be put into effect."

The trio watched the old woman in collective wonder. Her eyes fluttered shut, 
and she spoke as if in a trance. "And so Mihnara, Lady Time, came down among 
men. One woman was chosen to serve as the instrument of her vision - the lens 
through which to glimpse the paths of fate.

"For four weeks she was secured within the Temple of Mihnara, attended by the 
priests in service there. They found her afterwards, lying still upon the 
stones. The strain of the gods had proved too much for her mortal frame, they 
said.

"Her name was Gadriel. The priests of Mihnara erected a shrine to her inside 
the temple and buried her there."

The old woman fell silent. No one spoke for fear of disrupting the 
enchantment. After a few seconds Dorn seemed to awake, that aberrant light 
having returned to the lamps of her eyes.

"How do you know all this?" Amel Talic whispered softly.

The old woman looked at him, the weight of ages shining in her face. 
"Because I was there, Amel Talic, when they found her. Because I am the one 
who bore the Sacred Book to the Great Altar." Pain and sorrow had been dimmed 
by the passage of centuries, but the torches had never been completely 
extinguished.

A tear shined in her eye as she raised her voice to speak.

"Because Gadriel was my sister."

                         {X         X          X}



Haladan took a deep breath of cool summer air. It had been a long time since
he had found occasion to leave the musty confines of Kharsos' body. He
wondered how his brethren across the Garpastanos managed to live as they did,
shuttered and sheltered deep beneath the surface, away from the light of the
sun. 

He had been unable to lead such a stagnant life. The glint of gold might have a
hold in the heart of every dwarf, but that pull had not prevented Haladan from
leaving his home in the northern reaches of the Garpastan Mountains. Kharsos
had called to him. He had felt that other pull, that *stronger* pull, ever
since his grandfather had started reading stories to him at bedtime. He had
learned them all by heart, and even one hundred fifty-odd years later he could
recite most of them word for word. He had listened intently as his _abhu_
retold the story of Horan, who had stood against the barbarian lord Tyrax the
Red and his Blood Raiders. He had stayed awake listening to the tales of Rolan,
Crown Prince of the Klan Dwarves, who had won fame roaming the world doing
battle in the service of noble kings. He could list every commander Kharsos had
ever known, from the time of its construction down to the present day. He could
still hear the magic in his grandfather's voice as he told the saga of King
Thoradun, the first Lord of Kharsos, who had stood against the ravages of the
Gorungar until the gods had been able to destroy the demons. 

Those tales had always been his favorites. Kharsos the Impregnable, refusing
to break before the magical onslaught the Gorungar had unleashed. Thoradun the
Noble, remaining strong in the face of impending doom, his faith in his
citadel and his gods sustaining him in the long months of siege. 

The pull had been felt then. Haladan had resisted at first, faithfully
adhering to his duties as his father's son, working in the mines beneath his
city-under-the-mountains. When he had come of age, though, he had volunteered
for battle. As a young dwarf he had helped defend his clan against countless
barbarian marauders. The call had been clarion in his youth, but it had
intensified after a taste of combat. It had become irresistible. The mines
could hold him down no longer. 

And so he had bid farewell to the Klan Fathers and had made the long sojourn 
to the south. To Kharsos.

He had chosen to leave in the dead of winter rather than spend the entire
season buried alive beneath the mountains. It had been a long, hard journey
across the Garpastanos, completely alone, his furs and his axe all he had to
protect him from the wild. Many times he had been on the verge of turning back
in despair. 

But Kharsos had never stopped calling, and his soul had never ceased
listening. The sound carried above the howling winds. It cut through the
tumultuous roars of the avalanches that essayed to halt him. The notes rang
out across the mountaintops each morning, beckoning him ever southward. 

And so he had continued, a tiny speck upon the backs of ivory titans. And when 
he finally reached his goal and had crossed the last mountain, his soul had 
called back to the castle of its dreams. And in the melody of that song 
Haladan had finally felt at peace. He had finally felt at ease. 

He had finally felt at home.

Dynor had been in his prime then. He had accepted Haladan into the fold and 
set him to use.

He worked hard back then - long, hot hours spent by the sides of the great
masters, learning the art of warfare. He became skilled in the use of all
manner of weapons. He reviewed chronicles and journals of past battles,
gaining insights into the workings of the battlefield. 

He had not spent as much time by the forge learning the art of sword-making as 
Dynor would have liked, but the commanding officer understood his young 
recruit's reasons. He himself had left home to follow the call. He understood.

Haladan learned everything he could from the masters; when they had nothing 
more to teach him, he turned inwards to innovation. He had attained the rank 
of corporal at a young age, and his uncanny field tactics had so impressed 
his superiors that he was soon promoted to lieutenant general.

His ascension to the ranks of the General Assembly had followed not long 
after. He was Dynor's chief advisor by then. Not officially, of course - one 
was supposed to be a standing general to attain the post of Chief Advisor. But 
capital letters aside, no one enjoyed such access to the supreme commander's 
ear as Haladan did. Dynor had tapped him as his successor when the final 
illness had placed the stricken commander on his deathbed.

Those had been difficult days for Haladan. Kharsos itself was immune to decay, 
but its captain was not granted the same privilege. Haladan had stood by 
Dynor's deathbed in silence, powerless to stop the advancing illness. The body 
of the old dwarf had been toppled first, but the true agony lay in watching
the gradual rot spreading to his brain. The mind crumbled slowly at the onset,
but its wretched course soon picked up speed, accelerating until the entire
structure had virtually collapsed. 

Those last days had proved the most difficult of all. Dynor would lay in a 
state of paralysis, occasionally calling his chief advisor to his side, 
spitting mumbled insanities into his general's ear. It was a gross perversion
of the relationship they had both enjoyed in the past. 

Oh, pieces of the old dwarf's mind which had not yet succumbed to the wasting
would occasionally burst forth from their corporeal tomb. At those times,
Dynor would often speak at length of his victories on the battlefields of his
youth. But even these rays of sunshine were not without their darker shadows.
The fallen commander would lose himself to the present in his waking dreams,
hoarsely calling forth for the ghosts of generals long dead to lead their
divisions forward. 

Watching the commander on his bed, feebly attempting to muster his troops 
against an enemy long since vanquished, had finally proven too much for 
Haladan. He had left the dim confines of Dynor's formerly splendid chambers 
for the warmth of the sun above. A fierce urge had come upon him, and he had 
felt the need to leave that place where a final enemy could not be defeated by
the shrewdest of intellects; where the mind itself fell prey to an insidious
and indefensible attack. 

Four days later, he was informed that his commander had passed on, and that he 
was to assume the vacant position.

Haladan had felt no sorrow. Grief had long since relinquished its grip on the 
general who had mourned his commander as one already dead. He had only felt 
relief that Dynor finally knew peace.

Haladan gazed out across the ramparts of the great fortress. Most of the 
generals had joined him on the eastern wall at the news of Vartekh's approach. 
Kharadun stood close by, occasionally coughing into his fist. His friend did 
not look well. Grommand stood further off, silent within a circle of his most 
avid followers among the assembly.

Grommand had personality. Haladan conceded him that much. Certainly, the fiery 
dwarf yanked on a few beards from time to time. Haladan had been young once,
too. He had upset a few generals in his heyday. 

But the rift between the two stemmed from another source. No matter how hard
he tried, Haladan only saw one thing whenever he looked at the untested
general: Dynor's face, sickly and wasted, as he lay upon his deathbed.
Grommand's captaincy only served to remind him that he had left Dynor's side
in those final days. Left him to die among strangers. 

Haladan looked up at the gray clouds massing overhead and wondered if Dynor 
had ever forgiven him.

"My lord?"

Haladan turned, half expecting to see Dynor's face peering up into his own. 
But the puzzled face staring at him did not belong to the dead commander.

"You asked for this, my lord."

Erikos. Haladan had nearly forgotten sending the young dwarf for his 
fieldglass. He accepted the cylindrical object wordlessly, squinting with one 
eye and lifting it to the other. He adjusted the various segments, focusing
and refocusing until the desired object came into view. 

Far down the pass, dwarfed by the sheer cliffs which rose to either side,
advanced a solitary figure clothed in black. A long, slender staff was gripped
in its right hand, and as far as Haladan could tell, the figure was not
hurrying any in its approach. The staff swayed up and down rhythmically as the
dwarf watched, and Haladan soon found that his own breathing had fallen into
the same pattern. Up/in, down/out. Ever advancing onward, interminable. 

Haladan handed the spyglass back to Erikos, dismissing him with an indifferent 
wave of his hand. The messenger turned and left, taking great care to grant 
Grommand a wide berth. Haladan didn't notice.

The figure in black was about a thousand yards off now, still advancing in 
that steady, methodical manner. Haladan watched with a detached sense of 
interest. Somehow, he couldn't clear his mind of the distracted haze which had 
enveloped it. The old dwarf looked up to the sky again. The clouds had grown 
darker now, advancing with the same unwavering certainty as the intruder in 
the pass. Haladan didn't know why he was so melancholy. Dynor's memory 
certainly had something to do with it, but the old dwarf felt there was more
to it than that. 

Perhaps this just wasn't what he had expected. He had come to the eastern wall 
anticipating the enemy's advance _en masse_ upon the fortress. But instead of
advancing battle, he had only battled advancing boredom. 

Something wasn't right. Haladan preferred everything to operate straightaway, 
like clockwork. That was why he liked Kharadun so much: the old dwarf *did* run
things smoothly, despite Grommand's denunciations. His spyglass should have
revealed an advancing army. It hadn't, and this bothered him. 

The general laughed to himself. He must *really* be getting old, to let a thing
like this get to him. Vartekh certainly had reason enough to hesitate. One
seldom rushed headlong into annihilation, after all. 

Haladan gathered his thoughts again. The orcish general would come, in time.
He really had no other choice. The wait would just make the event that much
sweeter. 

He turned his attention once more upon the advancing figure. Only five hundred
yards separated them now, and these were being systematically eliminated, as
before. It was certainly a new twist, at any rate. Was this Vartekh coming to
negotiate some type of settlement? Perhaps to arrange a meeting? 

Haladan had his doubts. This orcish army was obviously intent on invading the 
Continent Proper, and Kharsos stood in the way of that invasion.

The dwarven commander shook his head and sighed. Many beings owed their 
continued existence to the vigilance of Kharsos' battalions. Invasions might 
seem infrequent to one with a lifespan of some three or four hundred years, 
but to the humans who lived west of the Garpastan Mountains, the rate was 
all too rapid. The dwarves had toiled thanklessly in the past, and they would 
toil thanklessly in the future.

And what did they ever have to show for it? Haladan considered the figure 
marching down the pass towards the fortress. After all, these orcs had 
benefited greatly from the trouncing of that last barbarian horde - and look
at the thanks Haladan was going to receive for that. Oh, a mighty tribute
indeed - an army of pikes, spears, and swords demanding blood sacrifice. 

No, it was better to go unthanked after all, the general decided.

Haladan gazed up at the sky again. The clouds had definitely grown darker, 
continuing to thunder in from the east. Haladan cursed the orcish gods who had
doubtless manipulated the winds in such a fashion, reversing their usual
currents. The sky to the east was a broiling mass of darkness swiftly rolling
westward. The sea of turmoil promised rain - a lot of it. 

Three hundred yards now.

Kharsos' commander peered around the ramparts surrounding him. Ballistas and 
heavy catapults were placed here and there at well-defended points, but they 
were by and large unmanned. Haladan's orders had been clear: under no 
circumstance was any dwarf to commence hostilities. The rules of war were to 
be followed to the letter. Vartekh's was the advancing army; Haladan's was the 
defensive. The dwarven commander realized the benefits that could be had from 
the demise of the orcish leader, but he was not about to let history's plume 
pen him the aggressor.

Two hundred yards to go.

Another figure came into view now, emerging from the corner of one eye.

"Enjoying the view, old friend?"

Haladan turned. Neither age nor ill health had sapped the strength from 
Kharadun's voice.

"Actually - no, I am not," Haladan replied. He noticed a cane in the 
hands of the other dwarf which had not been present at the meeting earlier 
that morning.

"Mmm," Kharadun nodded, turning his attention to the form of Vartekh's 
advancing figure. His weight shifted uneasily upon the crutch bracing his 
right side. "This is rather strange, is it not?"

"Indeed," the commander returned, setting his sights on the valley again. "I
cannot recall a single tale in all the history of this fortress ever speaking
of an enemy leader coming to parley." 

"Nor can I," said Kharadun. The old dwarf was well aware of his superior's
love of the tales of battle, and had done everything within his power to
familiarize himself with the history of the great fortress. Haladan's
treasuring of these stories had awakened a desire dormant in Kharadun to share
in similar tales of adventure. The two elder generals had shared much in their
lifetimes, most likely owing to the long hours they had spent on the
battlefield together. 

The two of them sat in silence on their watch. They did not require many words
to pass between them these days - their minds had long communicated more by
laconism than by language.

Vartekh halted his approach. Haladan didn't actually see him stop. He had,
rather, suddenly become conscious of a sudden absence of movement to match his
heartbeat. He stared with Kharadun into the deep valley of rock below. The
figure standing before the monstrous bulk of Kharsos was now dwarfed by more
than just the mountains. The noise drifting from the battlements below had all
but ceased with the halt of the orcish leader. 

Vartekh stared across the silent void spanning the gap between himself and the 
gates of Kharsos. His senses were keenly aware of the many pairs of eyes 
watching him. He ignored them all. It had been a long, difficult journey
across the barren Eastern Reaches to this forsaken hell of steel and stone. He
could feel the hatred, the contempt burning in the eyes upon him, and the 
feeling was reciprocated a thousand times over in the glint of his dark 
pupils. He had been inundated with fire, immersed in hate for many long years. 
He had sat in the darkness and listened to the prophecies of the clan shamans.
He had spent a lifetime contemplating his destiny in preparation of this
moment. Now that it had finally arrived, he was not to be stopped - certainly
not because those he was fated to destroy maliciously willed him away. 

He felt the surge of power well up within him.

Kharadun was the first to notice something wrong. The tingling sensation
slowly crawled from the base of the old dwarf's neck to his shoulders, a
sudden jolt flaring his enervated right arm with pain. Shivers ran up and down
his spine, the blazing chill keeping the words he would speak from his mouth. 

Haladan noticed it then, too. The world had suddenly become a very silent
place, as if everything was couched in cotton. The perception spread all along 
the rampart wall, fear seizing the throats of all in attendance. As the
unmistakable aura of undeniable magical power spread over the warriors of the
fortress, panicked generals began to shout to their stricken commander. 

He did not hear them.

Grommand was by his side now, gripping his arm fiercely, yelling something in 
his ear about giving some order or other. Haladan didn't reply. The aura 
carried with it a final message, and Haladan understood that he had been too 
late, that no order to shoot down the orcish leader could possibly be given in
time. Kharsos was a madhouse of confusion now as panic gripped the minds of
those who watched, but Haladan no longer cared. He knew only one thing: he was
too late. 

With all eyes looking on in abject terror, the Son of Tarkan lifted his staff
high overhead. It was not an act of aggression in and of itself, but the doom 
it bespoke reached into the hearts of the fortress' defenders. Three simple
words of magic were uttered, and though he lifted his voice not above a
whisper, the forces to which he spoke heard his call clarion as crystal. 

Kharsos fell.

                        {X          X          X}



Amel Talic had heard the words. His ears had picked them up cleanly - they 
didn't even require much dusting - and sent them on to his brain, which {\it 
should} have been telling him that what it had been sent had been improperly 
attired and, lacking a thick coat of logic, was unacceptable.

But it was telling him something else entirely and that something else
actually made sense. Dorn's infinite wisdom, her knowledge of Old World
history, her mastery of the arcane when she was obviously not a priestess - it
all fit together now. The pieces of a puzzle that had finally fallen into
place. 

"Why didn't you tell us earlier?"

The old woman smiled with a cryptic mischief about her, her face breaking from 
the sorrow in which it had nearly mired.

"Because, Amel Talic - you didn't ask."

Darius chuckled. Talic braced himself against the back of his chair, his head
hanging between his shoulders in bewildered confusion. 

"An Old Worlder," he mumbled aloud, shaking his head slightly back and forth.
His shoulder-length hair fell across his face as he slowly raised his head to
the old woman. 

"But Dorn...why now?"

The old woman's smile quickly faded. Her eyes met Talic's squarely, and the 
young priest was acutely aware of that *ageless* feeling about them again.
There was a message to be learned there in those eyes...a message he was
failing to recognize... 

"Because, Amel Talic, the time has come for many things to be revealed." The 
old crone paused. "Because my time here is almost over - but yours is just
beginning." 

The young acolyte shook his head as if he hadn't *quite* heard those last few
words. Argoth and Darius were in no better shape. 

"I don't think I understand."

Dorn's fingers, dexterous despite the withering effects of time, pinwheeled
through the empty air, seeming to dance one over the other. The Sacred Book
floated over to the companions on gossamer wings, alighting atop the teakwood
chest in which it had been brought. It came to rest on one corner of the 
wooden box, without a sound, as soft as a cat atop one's lap. 

"I don't expect you to, my friend," the crone said. "Not now, at any rate. It 
does not matter. You must take the Sacred Book of Mihnara to the Overlord of 
Mid. He will take you to the High Priest, who will translate the writings for 
you."

"Mid? But what about you?"

The old crone shook her head sadly. "I'm afraid I will not be accompanying you
this time, my friends." The old woman lifted her head sharply, as if she had
caught wind of an offensive comment she was not supposed to hear. Her eyes 
stared off into the distance as her left hand wove an intricate pattern
through the air, and the tingling of magic spread across the three companions.
She returned her gaze to the outlaws and spoke. "I will be needed here, it
seems." 

"Needed? For what?"

Dorn turned to Darius. "I don't suppose you realize you've been followed."

The beleagured young swordsman was more confused than ever. "Followed? By
who?" 

Argoth's voice was barely a whisper.

"Vartekh..." 

The Northerner moved quickly to gather up his possessions, strapping his
discarded sword over his left shoulder. The barbarian was a large man, but he
moved with the agile quickness of someone half his size. Talic hastily shut
the Sacred Book of Mihnara inside the teakwood chest, taking special care to
avoid ensnaring some stray fold of his robe. 

"We've got to move fast," he said.

Grimblade's face blanched. "Our horses...they're on the other side of town..."

Talic assumed control of the situation. He turned to Dorn. _My friend of so
many years_, he thought. _And how well do I really know you_? "Where are they?
How many?" 

The old woman closed her eyes, her magically heightened senses ranging beyond 
the boundaries of the four walls surrounding her. She paused a moment before 
answering, "Three...no, four. They are three blocks away, closing swiftly."

The old woman's brow furrowed in worrisome concentration. She opened her eyes.

"A priest is among them."

                        {X          X          X}



Haladan staggered to his knees. The first wave of tremors had simply shaken the 
ramparts a bit, and in his dazed stupor the sound had seemed little more than 
thunder from the stormclouds overhead.

There had been no mistaking the second wave. It had knocked him out of his 
daze, off his feet, and over the rampart wall.

The dwarven commander tried to clear his head. Standing up was impossible - 
the ground seemed to be playing games with him. It bounced up and down,
pulling away from his hands one moment, pressing painfully against them the 
next. He was certain his left leg was broken. He certainly couldn't recall 
having a second knee below the first, at any rate.

Shouts seemed to be coming from all around him, rising against the impossible 
din of the groaning earth. No need to shake his head to clear it - the 
vibrations were already threatening to rattle his eyeballs out of his skull.

Haladan turned his head as far as his wrenched neck would allow. He had fallen
back *into* Kharsos - that was one thing in his favor, at least. He extended
his left hand in search of support. It came down not on solid rock, but on
something warm and soft and sticky. 

Haladan looked up. His hand was pressed into the bloodied palm of one of his 
comrades, evidently killed by the fall from the parapet above. The other 
dwarf's face was turned away, but Haladan could see the obscene angle at which 
the neck was bent.

He crawled closer for a better look. A sudden shift in the ground pitched him 
over violently to one side, and as his arm was crushed beneath the weight of 
his body, Haladan saw the face of the other dwarf come into view, the broken
crutch still clutched in his clawed grip... 

Haladan rolled away quickly, ignoring his fractured wrist and leg, and retched 
spasmodically. He turned away from the stench and came face-to-face with 
another death mask: this time Grommand, sightless eyes still burning with that
mad fire inside them, scorching, screaming, condemning... 

Haladan choked for air. Cries came to his ears stifled in mid-scream. Sections 
of the walls were coming loose, tumbling down with a noise barely audible over 
the rumbling din of the mountains. Kharsos had become a temple, and chaos was 
god of the reigning moment.

He crawled forward. Direction no longer mattered. A large piece of rock
crashed down in front of him, the exploding impact showering his face and
hands in a hailstorm of sharp, biting rock. Haladan didn't care. He had
failed. Kharsos was dying. 

He crawled a little further, his bloodied hands and bleeding elbows dragging
him to a large rock, headstone for some unfortunate dwarf pinned beneath it.
If only he could clear his head and think. If only the explosions would cease
for a moment... 

But the earthquake took no notice of the dying general's request. The world 
kept shaking, falling apart around him. He wondered if the sky itself would 
crumble when the mountains were all but finished.

A monstrous groaning tore the general's face from the ground. His unwilling 
eyes stared incomprehensibly at the source of the moaning. Terror sank his 
heart as he watched the impossible event unfolding before him.

The mountains were *devouring* Kharsos.

Haladan watched in helpless despair as the rock of the mountains crushed the 
northern wall of the fortress. A hideous grinding sound punctured his ears as 
the last remnants of the ramparts disappeared beneath the advancing mountain.

Haladan strained his head towards the south. A giant wall of rock had 
similarly breached the defenses there, the dead and those too feebly injured 
to move being swallowed beneath the advancing monolith.

The screams of the dying were no longer distinguishable from the grating chaos 
generated by the monstrous vice. Haladan no longer cared. He had failed them 
all, the dead and the dying. Soon he would join them. He saw his doom laid out
clearly before him. He had left for Kharsos to escape the trap of the
Garpastan Mountains. Now the Garpastanos were closing over him like a tomb,
coming back to reclaim him, to welcome him home forever... 

A large rock struck Haladan in the shoulder, fresh pain driving him into the 
ground. He tried to crawl away on one arm, but a massive stone caught him 
below the waist, pulping his legs into what had been the main courtyard of 
what had once been Kharsos.

Faces wavered before the old dwarf's eyes. Dynor, Kharadun, Grommand, Horan, 
Rolan, Thoradun,...he had failed them, failed them all. Their images swam 
through his watery vision, the ghostly irritations bringing fresh tears 
to his eyes. Each of them carried a message, and each message was the same: 
_If only he had given the order_..._if only he had been in time_...

And then it was all upon him: the bodies, the blood, the pain, the death, the 
broken lives blending with stone beneath the mountains...

Haladan closed his eyes and sank mercifully into oblivion.

                         {X          X          X}



[Editorial note: here begins the rather poor excuse which is Chapter 3's 
ending.]

Argoth's face went white. 

"You must hurry, my friends," the old woman said. "This time, they will not 
bother to ask questions first."

Argoth understood. Dorn had shielded them here before from the unwanted 
probing of orcish eyes - but these orcs were here to kill, not quibble with an 
old woman.

_Damn suicide, this place_, the Northerner thought. _I'm never coming 
back here again_.

He realized that if he died here, he certainly *wasn't* coming back here again,
and he had no desire to die here in this hovel. Death could wait. Right now,
escape had to come first. 

"Dorn, you must come with us."

"No, my friend," she replied. "I am too old. I would only slow you down."

"Dorn, they've sent a *priest* this time. You're coming with us."

The old crone shook her head sadly. "I told you, Amel Talic - my time here is
almost at an end. After all I have seen and done...it is alright, my friend. 
Do not grieve for me."

"Now get going! This Old Worlder isn't out of fight yet." The old woman winked 
at him, her false bravado not convincing him in the slightest.

"We will meet again, my friend, in happier places," she said. The door was 
closing now, silently, magically, and Amel understood that this was the last 
time he was going to see this place. Ever. He would not be coming back.

"Now go. I will do what I can to keep them here." The door shut on Torin 
forever.

Talic clenched his teeth. The damned crazy woman almost *wanted* to die. Well,
there was nothing he could do about it now. 

Gathering his robes around him, he hastened down the alleyway. 

                         {X          X          X}



When Vartekh's army passed over what had once been Kharsos, they did not need 
to look for survivors.

They never had before.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

"There are many things you do not understand, young one. There will be many 
more." The words were slow in issuing forth from her mouth, seeming to hang in 
the air longer than they ought to. Talic's world had shrunken around him. The 
fireplace, the teacup, Argoth, Darius - all seemed crowded out by Dorn's 
larger-than-life face. Her image filled his sight, relegating all other 
objects to the corners of his vision. 

_Some kind of spell_, he realized. Any chance he had of breaking the spell 
passed by with her words, which boomed out from the engorged head.

"Remember this, Liberator," the grotesque face intoned. The words were unreal,
an exploding echo reverberating in the caverns of his mind. Dorn's face had
become monstrous, the tiniest wrinkles now dry riverbeds of dust across it. It
was a map of a wasted, blighted land, a bas-relief of agony. The mouth opened
and closed, gaping like a fish, and the bells pealed again. 

"The world is not as you know it. There will be many who will stand against 
you in your quest. There will be many allies to be found as well - some where 
you least expect them.

"*Beware them all*."

--
-=-Chet Zeshonski
v073pzuy@ubvms.cc.buffalo.edu